The walk to Dr. Avery's workshop was short, only a few blocks up to the north edge of town, but Brenda was glad for the trench coat. Winter wasn't as bad as she'd ever seen it—that'd be St. Petersburg, she thought with more than a touch of irony—but the wind off the ocean was strong and cold, the misting rain abrading her cheeks. She felt a sudden yearning for Los Angeles, its perfect weather, its soft beaches.
Maura stopped in front of a little building that looked like most of the other little buildings in town—storefronts of some kind surmounted by a level or two of living spaces. Brenda blinked, not sure what she'd expected, but it wasn't this place that looked like it was meant to sell expensive beachwear to tourists who'd forgotten their suits.
"This is a workshop?" she said quietly as Maura knocked at the door before pulling it open.
She only smiled a little. "Peter?" she called.
The front part of the space was relatively sparse; a few empty planters and seedling trays, some old rubber hoses and other equipment that looked suspiciously familiar to Brenda from her time doing property searches for the LAPD. A few rough shelves lined with bags of what were probably dirt, she figured, since the whole space felt warm, humid, smelled appealingly like pressing her face against the damp grass on a summer morning in Georgia.
"Is that you, Dr. Isles?" a man called from behind the enormous tarp that split the room into the small front section and whatever lay behind it.
"Yes," she said. "I've brought a guest with me, if that's all right."
"Always a pleasure," the voice said, and after a few moments of fumbling a gap opened in the tarp, and a tall, thin man, older but still handsome in a weathered kind of way, rustled through to greet them. "Hello, I'm Peter. And you must be—"
"Brenda Johnson," she said with him, offering a tight smile. He shook her hand with both of his, the grip warm and welcoming.
"I do hope you're feeling better," he said, still holding on to her hand, offering her a slight tilt of his head, a tut of concern. Ordinarily it would make Brenda chafe, this immediate closeness, this fretting, but something about his face, his posture, his kind eyes made her feel more at ease. "And I'm sorry for not letting you introduce yourself," he laughed, releasing her hand. "It's sort of a town habit."
"News travels fast," she agreed.
"I remember my first few weeks here. A bit unnerving—no offense, Dr. Isles."
"None taken," she said. "And Maura, please, this isn't a professional call, exactly, it's, um—"
Brenda could see her starting to flounder, felt a smile working its way up her face. Maura had always been a rotten liar, she'd seen it immediately, had found it funny—in a secret, scared way that she didn't really like to think about—that she, one of the most skilled fabricators several world governments had ever encountered, had fallen in love with a woman who could only tell the truth.
"I really did just want to meet you so very much, Doctor," she rushed in, accent thickening to honey. "And Dr. Isles said you might be open to a surprise visit, especially if, well . . ." she glanced at Maura.
"I brought you a Merlot," Maura said, meeting Brenda's eyes gratefully as she fished it out of her bag. "And a Chardonnay." They'd stopped by her office at the clinic so Maura could pick them up from the tightly-locked case she kept behind her desk. Brenda had eyed the padlock, but Maura assured her alcohol was perfectly permitted in the town, so long as nobody caused any harm, including to themselves. She just preferred to keep an eye on the more, well—
"The good stuff," Brenda smirked. Maura shrugged, lifted her hands.
"Would you like to pick?" she asked, letting Brenda examine the dozens of bottles, their labels smooth, crisp, clean. For a moment she felt a bit overwhelmed, not by the wine, but by the sudden feeling that it was impossible, this incongruent, this half-absurd thing in front of her; all these beautiful bottles, their beautiful labels, smooth, crisp, clean, as though she were standing in a grocery aisle, picking something to go with Chinese takeout.
"Are you all right?" Maura asked, and Brenda realized she must have been standing there, hands resting lightly on the curve of a bottle, for longer than she'd thought.
"It's just . . . they're so real," she said, shaking her head, because that wasn't the right thing. Felt silly to say. But Maura had smiled at her anyway. "I know," she'd replied, and Brenda had believed it.
She'd gravitated toward the Merlot, obviously, a bottle that now had a twenty-year vintage. "I bet this'll be the fanciest wine I've ever had," she muttered, only half-serious.
"For relatively new grapes, it ages surprisingly well," Maura said, not catching the joke. "Washington State's wine-growing region is ecologically comparable to the prime regions in France, as well as—"
"I bet it's real good," Brenda said, gripping it decisively. "Anythin' else?"
"The whites don't age as well, but I do love them, and there's a few vintages that have held up nicely," she said, picking up a bottle the color of filtered honey.
"I bet that one's real good too," Brenda said, feeling bad about rushing her after Maura had indulged her little existential come-apart, but suddenly very eager to talk to their botanist.
And for a glass of wine.
So they'd brought those two bottles, Maura holding her canvas bag carefully to keep them from knocking together.
"I hope they're good, but I haven't had any glasses of wine in quite a while, so you'll have to let me know if I can still taste it right," she said, only half-joking.
"There's no wrong or right, Ms. Johnson," he smiled. "Just what you like."
"Brenda, please," she said politely. She could still get a little frustrated about these kinds of introductory dances, especially when she had something on her mind, but she was determined to be the picture of cooperation and professionalism.
"Peter," he said again. "Let's get these open; the Merlot needs to warm up and breathe, but this Woodward should be ready right now, if you are."
Maura smiled, nodded. She and Peter ducked back under the tarp, Brenda following them a little clumsily, as she only had one arm free. She wrestled her way through, huffing as she brushed her hair back from her face, and then gasped.
On the other side was that same warm, damp atmosphere, but it surrounded her now, and there was a soft green glow coming from everywhere. She realized quickly it was from the walls, covered with vegetation; some plants climbing and twisting around pipes and racks, some held up on huge frames with dozens upon dozens of small individual planters arranged on their vertical faces. Warm yellow light spilled down from everywhere, though many of the plants had their own small lamps, their blue-white light too harsh for Brenda to look at for long.
In the center of the room was an enormous wooden table with a hard matte surface, cluttered with tubes, notebooks, scraps of plants, and dominated by several large, fragile-looking glass setups Brenda vowed she'd get nowhere near. She watched with a little awe as various liquids bubbled in their flasks over blue flames, dripped slowly out from long, delicate spiraling tubes.
"Now this is a workshop," she mumbled.
"So you see why everyone calls it that," Peter smiled, carefully uncorking the Merlot, giving it a tentative sniff. "Perfect," he said, pouring it into two nearby glasses. "Ten minutes."
"You know an awful lot about wine," Brenda said.
"I had a brother in viticulture," he said.
"Growing grapes," Maura supplied.
"Yes, thank you, I was forced to vacation in Napa like everyone else," she muttered.
"You don't like wine?" Peter looked surprised.
"Oh heavens, that's not what I meant," Brenda gasped. "It was more the vacations that weren't really my thing."
He laughed. "Busy job?"
"You could say that."
He looked at his crowded table, flasks bubbling, papers drifting. "I know the feeling."
"So Maura says you're a botanist?" she said, seeing the opening and hoping she crept through as unobtrusively as possible.
"That I am," he said, holding up a glass of the white wine, taking a tiny sip, then handing the other to Maura. "I have a PhD in plant biochemistry, with a special interest in evolutionary biosynthesis and genetics."
"Well," Brenda said, understanding at least some of that. "Huh."
"My research is in finding ways to make plants more useful," he said. "I study ways to enhance the natural efficiencies in growth and production. So, like here," he said, moving to one of the complicated glass setups, "I'm working with some of the folks out at the Big Farm to see if we can increase our annual crop yields by selecting for breed traits that are well-suited to this kind of ecosystem."
"Better corn," Brenda said.
"Better corn," Peter smiled. "But without pesticides, without having to fix things later."
"Genetic engineering, then."
"Well," he said. "Sort of. In part."
"And have you always done that?"
His brow wrinkled, just slightly, as he sipped at his wine. "More or less," he said, his tone a little less friendly.
"Brenda's used to asking questions," Maura broke in. "And you're right, Peter, this wine is delicious."
"A detective, hmm?" Peter said, and Brenda could tell he was joking, but she looked over at Maura, who nodded, smiled.
"A Deputy Chief," Maura said, a hint of pride in her voice. "With the Los Angeles Police Department."
"Ah," Peter said, raising his glass. "Los Angeles. So that's why Napa."
"You don't like Napa?" she teased.
He shrugged. "I find it a little overrated."
"Can't say as I disagree," Brenda said. "That Merlot breathed enough yet?"
Peter gave her a wry little smile. "I get the feeling you don't mind leaving anyone breathless, Deputy Chief," he said, and this time Brenda was certain he'd winked, but this time she wasn't sure at who. She tried briefly to think of who could possibly have shared her secret with this man, all the way out on the edge of town, fiddling with plants and talking about wine—
"Fernando," she groaned without thinking.
Peter and Maura both blinked at her, then Peter gave her an innocent little pout and Maura flushed to the color of her wine.
"I really hate walkin' into situations with less information than anyone else," she grumbled, staring moodily at Maura.
"Dr. Isles didn't say a single word," Peter said, crossing his heart. "I met Dr. Morales in town while I was picking up some things from Charlotte, and, well."
"Peas in a pod," she muttered.
Maura was trying to hide her giggle behind her hand and for a moment Brenda was irritated with all of them, but she watched Maura's eyes sparkle, gave in.
"Well then, Peter," she said. "It turns out you probably know more about me than I do, if you've had a cocktail with my dear, dear Dr. Morales."
"He may have told a few tales," Peter agreed. "But he thinks the world of you."
"Me too," Brenda mumbled, suddenly embarrassed, then more than a little relieved when Peter handed over her glass. She took a long sip, let the wine flow into her mouth, breathed slowly, savoring it. Both Peter and Maura looked at her expectantly, but all she could do was nod emphatically. They smiled, and then at each other for a moment, before Peter's face went serious, and he settled back on his stool.
"So, Maura, you said this wasn't entirely a work-related visit. Would it be best for everyone if we move now to the part that is?"
"You know?" Maura looked slightly shocked, but didn't continue.
Peter sighed, nodded, rubbed at his forehead. "As soon as it turned out to be a Russian ship, I suspected something. But the Ivan Grozny, that's a name I've been waiting to hear again for some time."
"So it is you they're lookin' for," Brenda breathed. Took another luxurious sip of her wine. Tried to focus on both things at once.
"I'm afraid so," he said.
"Can you tell us why?"
Peter sighed again. Set down his glass. Lowered his head into his hands. Brenda frowned. She'd only spent a little while with him, but this shift in his body language made her very concerned; a glance at Maura showed she agreed.
"Did they tell you anything about what they wanted?" His voice was weary, almost defeated.
"They, uh, they said they were lookin' for a botanist," Brenda pressed on, tapping into those old reserves of determination. "An American who had been workin' with the Russians up in Alaska way before everything happened. That they'd been tryin' to find him so he could help them grow crops in Siberia," she finished, her tone leaving no doubt as to her opinion of that part of the story.
There was a long pause. Peter lifted his head, sighed again, placed his hands palms-down on the table, as though he were bracing himself for something.
"They had some of it right," he said after a beat. "I am a botanist, as I've said, and I was in Alaska—"
"I thought you were in Vancouver," Maura said, her voice taking on that anxious edge it did whenever she found out she'd been misled.
"I was, I assure you. I really was working for the University of British Columbia. That's where they were wrong. I'm not an American, I'm Canadian. I was part of a multinational team called up to an isolated station north of the Arctic Circle, ostensibly to do exactly what the Russians told you, Chief Johnson."
"Brenda," she whispered.
"If you don't mind," he said softly, "I think it will help me to say all this if I feel like I'm telling someone who can do something, even if that's just a fantasy based on a title that doesn't mean anything now. I'm sorry if it sounds silly, or childish—"
Brenda felt only a tiny hit at her pride, even though he was right. "Of course, Dr. Avery," she said smoothly. "Please continue."
"Thank you, Chief Johnson," he said. Maura moved over to her, sat on the stool next to hers, their arms almost brushing.
"But, as I'm sure you've guessed, and as Dr. Isles must be all too distressingly familiar with, given her own history, that project was simply a cover, a way to hide the work we were actually doing."
"Which was?"
He took a long pull of his wine, stared blankly for a moment, then spoke without looking at either of them.
"I was part of a team working to develop augmentations to human bodies using products, genetic traits, and chemical extracts from a variety of plants, including fungi and algae. Though those last two weren't my area. There were others for that."
Brenda felt Maura shiver next to her, could hear her sharp breath, could hear it turning shallow. She settled her hand on Maura's knee again, stroked the outside of Maura's kneecap with her thumb. Neither of them spoke.
"The project obviously had military applications in mind. We were working on ways to increase stamina, strength, mental energy, immune response, all without rapidly burning out brains or bodies the way existing chemical formulations did. It was a top-secret project, nobody knew about it beyond a handful of people outside the lab, people in DC and Oslo and Moscow."
There was another long silence.
"Did you know what you were really doin' there when you went, Dr. Avery?" Brenda asked, her voice soft, steady.
"Not at first," he replied, rubbing his hand over his face again. "But after a while, it was obvious. The kinds of results we'd be asked for. The kinds of specialists they brought in." He sighed, took another sip of his wine, cleared his throat. "When we found out—myself and another scientist, Dr. Alexeyev, from the Russian team—we decided to leave the compound. But it was very difficult; the station was very remote, we were tightly monitored."
"But you got away," Brenda said. "You and, uh, Doctor—"
"Alexeyev. Misha Alexeyev. He was a botanist, like me, but he specialized in physiology and systems ecology."
Brenda studied his face closely. Watched the way his eyes darkened when he mentioned the other doctor. Watched the way his shoulders tensed, his hands fiddled with whatever was nearby on the table.
"Dr. Avery," she said softly, "did you and Dr. Alexeyev have more than one reason to want to get away from that facility?"
He laughed bitterly. "Needless to say, we wouldn't have been very popular for our ethics or our moral character."
"And did you and Dr. Alexeyev—"
"Misha—"
"Did you and Misha manage to escape?"
He nodded. Brenda could tell he was trying to hold back tears.
"And what happened after that?"
"We made it to Fairbanks, and then down to Anchorage. I didn't know about going to a port city like that, but Misha said they wouldn't find us, not for a while, and then, well . . . it happened."
Brenda nodded.
"Misha and I survived by hiding out in an abandoned cannery for a few months. After that it wasn't too bad. A lot of people there knew how to survive already. So we stayed there for a few years, just living. Like here," he said, smiling sadly at Maura, who reached out her hand and placed it on his.
"One day, though, he came home and said he'd seen a ship in the port. A Russian ship. This was right after ships had started coming again, it was one of the first ones, and when he told me, the look on his face—"
"Take your time," Brenda soothed. "Was it the Ivan Grozny?"
Peter nodded, sniffling.
"And the people on the ship, I'm guessin' they saw him too?"
He nodded again. "He told me to run. Right then. To go somewhere and hide, and as soon as I could, to leave."
"Why didn't he come with you?" Brenda asked, even though she didn't want to.
"Because they knew he was there," Peter whispered. "They saw him. They wouldn't stop looking then, ever. But they didn't see me. He said he'd tell them I'd died. When it happened."
"And so you ran."
"I had to," Peter said, almost inaudible.
"I know you did," Maura said, her voice dark and heavy, but still gentle. "We've all had to make terrible choices, Peter. Do things that have destroyed us."
Brenda felt a little shiver at Maura's words, wondered briefly what other horrors she'd seen. Tried not to think about it. Tried not to think about the sudden flash of a bright mountain sunrise, mauve and pink and red and soft gold. Her hands trembling, placing a final stone on top of the collection she'd amassed by herself, one by one, and then placed gently, carefully, as beautifully as she could, over the small, shallow place she and Fernando had scraped out. Tried not to think about how she'd insisted on covering Sharon by herself, both of them cradled for the last time together in the upward slope of a hill that had been Sharon's favorite place to watch the sunrise. Tried not think about that as she tried not to think about Peter's sacrifice. About all the things Maura had lost.
"And now, at last, they've found me," Peter said, lifting his head with a sardonic grin. He raised his glass. "To fate finally catching up with us," he added, and drained it.
"Now hold on," Brenda said. "Nobody's goin' anywhere."
"They know I'm here, Chief. They won't leave without me."
Brenda sighed, slumped down on her elbows. "How do you think they know?" she said, finally.
He shrugged.
"They'd been listening to our radio broadcasts," Maura said suddenly. "Brenda, isn't that what Captain Volkov said?"
Peter's back stiffened. "Volkov."
"You know him?" Brenda eyed him.
He nodded miserably. "He was the captain of the ship that Misha had been assigned to. The science officer. He's a terrible man, Chief. An immensely dangerous man."
"I'd gotten that idea myself," Brenda muttered. "But yes, he did say they'd heard your radio broadcasts for years and just now decided to come on down."
"Why now?" Maura asked, though it was more to herself.
They sat for a moment in gloomy silence, trying to think.
"Angelica," Peter whispered after a moment.
"What?" Brenda and Maura said in unison.
"Seeds I requested. Angelica seeds. Some others used in some of our original studies. Nothing terribly out of the ordinary on their own, but in those specific groupings—"
Maura's face went white. "Dr. Avery—"
"To continue the work we'd started on wound healing and tissue regeneration," he said quickly. "The value of such things in a place like this would be—"
"Somethin' worth lookin' for," Brenda muttered darkly.
"They must have been monitoring our inventory request transmissions," he said flatly. "Oh god, I led them right to us."
"No," Maura said, the force in her voice causing everyone to jump. "You did no such thing, Dr. Avery. These men are predators. They were actively searching for you, and we had no idea."
He stared down at his hands, shoulders shaking a little.
"Maura's right," Brenda said, just as firmly. "All you've done is tried to make lives better, and we're not going to let them get in the way of that. We'll keep you safe, Dr. Avery. Peter." Her voice grew kinder, but not any less steely. "We'll keep you here. I promise."
Peter finally looked up, his face lined deeply with sorrow. "You can't, Chief. You can't stop them from taking me."
Brenda sighed. Part of her suspected he was right. She chewed on her bottom lip, not even thinking, just trying to stay steady.
Next to her, Maura reached out, slipped her hand around Brenda's hip. Squeezed, just a little.